CHAPTER 460: CHAPTER 460: DECISIONS, DECISIONS (PART 10)

The room held still for a moment, only the table’s projectors muttering above the ring of seats. whrrrr~

Elle kept the box open in both hands. The collar rested inside, a thin band of dark metal etched with uneven sigils. Her eyes flicked up, searching his face.

"You... don’t like it?" The words came small. Her mouth dipped.

Don drew breath to answer—

Trixie leaned around his shoulder, tail swaying lazy S-curves. "Uhh, Elle, maybe tell him what it does first. He might think you’re asking him to become your pet, unless—"

The lid snapped shut. clap~

"S-shut up!" Elle’s frown arrived with a wash of color climbing her cheeks. She angled the box against her ribs and glared past Don.

Trixie’s grin didn’t move. "Heh."

Don raised a brow. "Uhm—"

"Sorry," Elle said quickly, pivoting back to him. "I... forgot to explain for a second."

Trixie’s tail made a wider sweep. She pressed closer to Don’s back and breathed in near his neck like she was sampling a dessert menu. "Were you distracted by Don’s presence again? Don’t worry. I get it." She inhaled again, longer. "His scent is alluring—mmh."

Elle’s blush deepened—too honest to dismiss. Don’s instincts slid cold along his spine, that steady alarm bell he’d learned not to ignore.

"I’m getting kinda shifty just thinking abou—"

Elle wasn’t in front of him anymore.

Air warped, a faint blue flick behind his shoulder, and her hand clamped down on Trixie’s shoulder. shfft~

Trixie yelped. "Hey—!"

Elle launched her like she weighed nothing. Trixie sailed up toward the high ceiling—then popped out in a puff of pink. Pffft~

She reappeared sprawled sideways in one of the chairs around the table, one knee over the armrest, tail flicking. "Geez, Elle, I was only kidding."

"Hmph." Elle looked more embarrassed than angry. She pivoted back to Don and found him watching her. That pulled her posture tighter. She lifted the box again.

"Forget what she said. Uhm." A steadying breath. "This collar is an arcane artifact I managed to get my hands on." She clicked the lid open. "It’s not for you to wear. It’s for Trixie."

Don’s eyebrow edged higher. "What do you mean? Like to make her behave?"

"Hey!" Trixie sat up, offended written all over her tail.

Elle ignored it, shaking her head. "No. It’s a familiar’s collar. Masters with weak or no arcane prowess use it to control arcane creatures under a certain threshold—like Trixie." She rushed the next line, words hopping a step faster. "But that’s not why I got it."

She lifted the band free. The sigils along the rim woke with a soft blue glow, crawling light that chased itself around the ring. A faint tone bled into the room, more felt than heard.

"Most people who get this use it to build their arcane essence by channeling through a familiar." Her eyes stayed on the collar, as if it might bite. "This one... will let you gain arcane essence naturally through Trixie. Gradually. As long as you keep her fed."

Color rose again in her face. She didn’t look up.

"Woohoo!" Trixie threw both hands up like she’d won a raffle. Her chair spun half a turn; she planted a heel on the table edge and set herself drifting back into place. squeak~

Don didn’t let the brow climb any further. He wanted to ask if Elle was truly fine with the implication; he also enjoyed being alive. He turned to Trixie instead. "You’re fine with sharing your arcane essence?"

Trixie shrugged. "I’m generous."

Elle cut in, glancing over at her familiar with a small, guarded look. "It’s for the best. She can’t survive solely by staying close to me anymore."

Don shifted back to Elle. "What do you mean?"

Elle’s color cooled by degrees. She steadied the box against her hip and met his eyes. "Well... as an arcane creature, Trixie needs a source to replenish or grow her arcane essence." Her voice evened out. "Emotion feeds it. Proximity helps. But it has to come from somewhere."

Pffft~

Trixie reappeared on top of the table beside them in a curl of pink smoke, bare feet on the surface. The holograms shivered around her calves as if annoyed to have a person standing inside them. whrrr~

"It used to be enough just being close to Elle," she said, leaning in with her tail swishing through Sister Rose’s floating profile. "Her emotions toward you were incredibly strong and tasty." She grinned toward Don.

"But now that you’re back in her life—which is great and all—it also means her emotions aren’t as strong... well, not as much as they used to be, y’know, before you came... heh, pun intended."

Elle’s brows pinched. Side eye delivered.

Trixie winced, pivoting fast. "Anyway—"

A blur of static flicked at the edge of vision. Not speed—space folding. Don’s gaze dropped to Trixie’s throat before the thought even finished.

The collar was already on her.

Matte black, plain, a close-fit band with a single brushed steel D-ring seated at the front—clean slot for a leash, nothing ornamental. No glow now. Just a quiet bit of hardware that wouldn’t look out of place in a high-end BDSM boutique.

Trixie paused mid-word. One brow rose. Her hand climbed to her neck, fingers tapping the band as if checking for a prank. clink~

"Wha...? When did you—" She caught Elle’s look and aborted the rest. "Uhm." She pivoted to Don instead. "How do I look? More sexy than usual? Or more cute than usual?"

"Is ’more annoying than usual’ on the table?"

"Hmph." Trixie folded her arms like a scolded cat.

Elle let out a small laugh. Then her expression shifted—something held behind her teeth. Don saw it land and stay.

He angled to ask. Trixie beat him to the mouth of the moment, turning bright-eyed toward him. "Doesn’t matter. I’m your problem now."

"I don’t think so," Don said, calm as a weather report. He reached past a floating dossier and flicked it aside with a finger; the file spun and resettled in orbit. "Once I leave, you can get back to running away from Elle."

Trixie’s playful frown inverted into a wide smile. Her eyes picked up a spark—mischief braided with confidence.

Elle spoke before the look could blossom into words. "Actually," she said, throat clearing once, "for this to work best... Trixie is going to have to live with you."

The grin on Trixie’s face grew like a time-lapse bloom. Don blinked once.

"What?"

———

Meanwhile...

Runway lights winked in slow pairs down the spine of Santos City’s largest base. Fuel smell hung low. Floodlamps washed the concrete in white bands where crewmen moved like clockwork around parked steel.

To the left, a gray cargo plane sat with its nose ramp gaped, forklifts ferrying strapped pallets into its stomach. beep-beep~ Ratchet straps tightened. clack-clack~

Farther down, two fighter jets crouched under open panels. Mechanics on ladders checked wiring and hydraulics, torches kept low, gloved hands tapping housings with rubber mallets. tok~ tok~

Outside one gaping hangar, a different bird waited—a large jet, passenger-plane size but dressed for war.

Matte black from nose to tail. On the wing and the tail, the UPSDF logo sat muted, paint that barely caught the light. A mobile staircase hugged its forward hatch. The APU whined a steady, thin note. whiiiiir~

The hangar doors were stacked wide. People came out in twos and threes: uniforms first—fatigues, berets, sidearms—then office types with boxy briefcases and duffels that thumped when set down. thud~ thud~

General Strauman followed last, a slab of a man with his jacket tossed over one shoulder like he’d bullied it there. A cigar rode the corner of his mouth, ember pulsing when he drew. ffff—puff~

Beside him shuffled Commissioner Bateman. The suit on him hung loose; the night was cool but his forehead shone anyway. Next to the General, he looked like a child trying to keep up with a father who didn’t slow down.

"I hope we have an understanding, Commissioner," Strauman said, not bothering to look his way. His eyes stayed on the line boarding the jet.

Bateman swallowed. glk~ "I understand. I won’t say a word to anyone, and I’ll immediately have the case closed—officially and unofficially."

"Good." Strauman’s smile came small. He shifted the cigar to the other side with a thumb and forefinger. Then his free hand clapped Bateman’s back. pat~ The weight of it didn’t leave.

"As long as you do as I told, the justice department won’t hear from us about your many... many... secrets."

Another swallow. Another dab at the temple. "I understand, sir—General... thank you, I promise I—"

Strauman lifted his hand off the man like he’d gotten what he needed. "Your promises mean nothing to me, Gordon." The name landed flat. "If you understand, then get lost. Our business is done. And for your sake, you best keep it that way."

Bateman’s mouth worked once without sound. He nodded too many times in a row. "Right, yes... well—have a safe journey, General... if you’ll excuse me."

He turned and went quick, shoes tapping faster than a man at ease. tap-tap-tap~ He didn’t look back. He cut across the apron toward another hangar, head down.

A second passed. Then soft, careful steps approached from behind the General.

"Well," Strauman said, still facing the boarding stair, "that should eliminate that local problem of yours." He pivoted only then, exhaling smoke that twisted away in the crosswind. He met the figure’s lenses. "Miss Scott."

Victoria stood there like she’d been sketched in from a colder place. A village headscarf wrapped her hair; black aviators hid the eyes. Black button-up tucked clean into brown pants, belt cinched, black boots dusted from travel. She tipped a small smile and a nod.

"I suppose it does," she said. "But that begs a different question." She slid her hands into her pockets. "What does the almighty UPSDF want with me?"

Strauman laughed from his chest and pushed out another ribbon of smoke. puff~ "Let’s just say we could use your... expertise in regards to a certain matter." His gaze flicked to the jet. "But we can discuss that more back at HQ."

Victoria’s mouth moved into a smirk that didn’t touch anything else. A quiet scoff rode under it. "It’s not like I have much of a voice."

She stepped past him and up the stairs. clank—clank—clank~ A crew chief at the top checked her badge, then waved her through. Strauman watched her disappear into the fuselage, rolled the cigar between his fingers, and flicked ash to the concrete.

———

A/N: Things are getting messy.